I woke up at three o’clock in the morning last night with a serious and profound realization “I have not been honest with myself.” In a dream I was reciting the opening paragraph for a story I am writing when it hit me. I was writing with a voice that was not my own. I know this sounds crazy but I swear it is the truth. In my mind I was speaking with a funny accent like an announcer on a TV commercial. The voice was coming from outside me, rather than from me. I pen this voice “The Escape Artist.”
Immediately I jumped out of bed and raced to the hiding place of my old friend Marlboro light.
The epiphany made me realize I am not an honest writer, and the more I pondered the notion I came to accept the fact that if I go on writing I will need to say goodbye to The Escape Artist in me and find my true voice.
So, I sat drinking coffee on my back porch in the wee hours of the night looking up the moon. I smoked the forbidden cigarette, and I thanked the universe for waking me up from a bad dream.
To be continued: